Fitzwilliam Darcy
Darcy blotted the letterhastily, folding it with a snap of the wrist and sealing it at once. He summoned a footman, gave brisk instructions for express delivery to Derbyshire, and returned to his writing desk as if he had dispatched a trifling bill of account, not a plea for order thinly disguised as a family update.
There. Done. No cause for interference. No cause for alarm.
He glanced at the empty fireplace, then at the neatly stacked papers awaiting his attention.
None of it sparked the slightest interest.
The Gardiners. Gracechurch Street. Elizabeth.
No,Miss Bennet.
It was all in hand. All arranged. He had no reason to linger. No reason to hesitate. Their agreement, however misguided, demanded action.
Miss Bennet could hardly be expected to seek him out.
If introductions were to be made—if this absurd enterprise was to proceed at all—he must initiate it. Properly. Discreetly.
Entirely correct. Entirely necessary.
Perfectly normal.
Darcy stared at the carpet for a long moment, calculating and discarding a dozen strategies in turn.
He could not call directly upon Miss Bennet.
He could not force an accidental meeting — the Gardiners' society was unlikely to overlap with his own. Although, occasionally it had, but most of those mutual acquaintances were from the country in Derbyshire, and not presently in London. And he could hardly rely upon Bingley; the man would be busy allowing his sister to shepherd him through every fashionable drawing room in London.
But perhaps serendipity might serve where calculations failed. Elizabeth had a gift for turning up where she was least expected.
She had stumbled across him in bookstores, in drawing rooms, at picnic grounds, and market squares, as though some mischief of fate conspired to throw them together whenever his guard was lowest.
Perhaps, if he moved within the proper circles... if he made himself visible enough...
Perhaps fate would be kind again.
It was absurd. He was a man of nine-and-twenty years, master of Pemberley, responsible for more souls and estates than most peers of the realm. He could manage a simple social reintroduction without floundering like a schoolboy at his first assembly.
At that moment, the door opened without ceremony.
Colonel Fitzwilliam strode into the room, boots scattering the carpet runners, and tossed his hat onto a chair without so much as a glance. “I thought I might find you buried in account books,” he said with a grin, “or sulking into your brandy. Must say, I am relieved to discover you only scowling.”
Darcy turned at the sound, his expression sharpening. “Spain finally let you leave?” he asked.
“Only just back,” Richard said. “Arrived in port two nights ago. I have barely had time to change my boots. But do not get too used to my company. I am being shipped off again—Eastbourne this time. The regiment is to be billeted there until spring. Salt air, freezing wind, and not a single decent game of cards to be found. Glorious holiday.”
He dragged off his gloves with short, aggravated tugs and sank into the nearest chair.
Darcy gave a slight nod, his mouth twitching into something like a smile. “It is good to see you, Richard.”
"And you, cousin. Though I must say—" Richard dropped lazily into a chair, sprawling in that careless, insolent way that would have earned him a rebuke in any house less indulgentthan Darcy's, "—I had not expected you back in Town so soon. Grandmother wrote me not three days ago, crowing about your expedition to the wilds of Hertfordshire. Said you had gone to inspect a particular lady of promise."
Darcy stilled. His hands flexed behind his back.
"The dowager," he said coldly, "has a remarkable talent for speaking out of turn."
Richard only laughed. "Does she? Then there must be some truth to it."
